


One Unread Message

by flyingisland



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M, Shizaya - Freeform, Suicide Forums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7030846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izaya makes a new request on the suicide forums.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Unread Message

**Nakura [10/10/16: 1:35:43]: Do you want to disappear with me?**

_The world is such an awful place, you see. Every day I find myself face to face with ghosts in human skin. Life feels meaningless. The activities which once fueled my passion for this world have faded to dull, colorless, robotic tasks which mean nothing more to me than the monotony of the regular day to day. And what about you? How did you find yourself here? Are you up to the task of ending all of this for good?_

_Will you die with me?_  


**Zayukain [10/10/16: 1:46:32]:** _You sound too excited. Like you don't really want to die._

 **Zayukain [10/10/16: 2:23:21]:** _But I'll disappear with you. Even if you won't actually do it._

 **Zayukain [10/10/16 2:40:15]:** _I don't want to do it alone._

  
Izaya sits back in his chair, fingers on the keys as he watches each new message appear on the screen. This human, _Zayukain_ , is new to the forums. Their handle is only a few hours old, has only replied to his thread alone. As though maybe this person has just now decided to die, and hasn't contemplated it or planned it, painstakingly, for months and months as many of the other posters have.

He wonders if this makes this human more or less serious about dying, or if this hastiness means anything at all.

It’s early in the morning, still dark, still considered night time for so many inhabitants of the city around him, but Izaya finds that he is anything but tired. It’s been a long time since he’s visited this forum. At one point, he might have frequented it every other week, so constant that he needed to create a new username multiple times a month as to not raise suspicion. As it is, none of the current posters remember him at all.

Maybe the names that he remembers have moved on and given up on the idea of dying. Maybe some of them have actually done it.

He wonders if this Zayukain will really try to die. He wonders how they’ll choose to do it. Sleeping pills? That’s a popular one. Maybe a noose? Maybe a razor to the wrists and a whole lot of blood for the cleanup crew to steam out of the carpets?

He’s not sure which means would be the most pleasurable to experience. He’s not sure if he’s even interested in watching that sort of thing at all. This new poster doesn’t add anything to the forum after their initial three messages, waiting, surely, for Nakura to reply and accept their acceptance, to get into contact and mull over the nitty gritty of their suicide pact before they finally get to it.

Zayukain does not know that Izaya is a seasoned veteran. They have no way of understanding the danger that lurks behind such innocent, open and genuine text.  


**Nakura [10/10/16: 3:05:53]:** _Did I sound too excited? I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time._

 **Nakura [10/10/16: 3:10:45]:** _Can I private message you? I’d like to get to know you before we, well, you know._

  
He feigns innocence, nervousness, maybe. He puts together a backstory for this Nakura in his head. This new friend of his seems suspicious. The usual nihilistic front probably won’t work on them. He needs to formulate a sob story, to tug at their heartstrings. He needs to convince this person that he is worthy of watching them die.  


_[ One New Message ]_  


His computer beeps, a tiny exclamation point appearing next to the envelope icon near the top corner of the screen. He clicks it, opening the chat log, fingers ghosting against the smirk crawling over his lips, eyes dark, deep and black with only the light of the monitor illuminating his vast living room.  


**Zayukain:** _What do you want to know?_  


Taking a moment to pop his knuckles, Izaya contemplates what exactly he _does_ want to know about this human. A name? No, too forward too soon. An age? That might be okay? The reason why they’re so eager to die, of course, but maybe what they do for a living? How they feel about the other humans existing around them? An arbitrary list of interests?  


**Nakura:** _Where are you from? How old are you? Why are you choosing to do this now?_  


It takes a moment for them to reply. He watches the slow ellipses animating at the bottom of the screen, indicating that they’re typing—disappearing when they change their mind, only to reappear a second later.

Finally, when he’s sure that his browser is glitching out somehow and he’s ready to close the window and open another, a reply pops up.  


**Zayukain:** _I live in Tokyo. I’m 23. Tell me why you want to first._  


He stifles a laugh, disliking the echo of it in the empty room, telling himself that it’s only because he doesn’t have time for theatrics.  


**Nakura:** _I already mentioned that in my post._

 **Zayukain:** _I don’t buy it._  


He sits up a little straighter, cocking his head to the side. So this one is slyer than he thought, but if they can read him so easily, why reply? Why show interest in dying together at all?  


**Nakura:** _Okay, you caught me._

 **Nakura:** _Do you promise you won’t laugh?_  


He waits for another minute or two, watching the animation, wondering what kind of human this is, staring at the same text from another computer screen, possibly hours away, possibly right next door.  


**Zayukain:** _As long as you promise not to laugh at me._

 **Nakura:** _Of course I won’t. You seem very serious about this._

 **Zayukain:** _I am._

 **Nakura:** _Well, you see…_  


He goes through the motions of typing and erasing text, hoping to convey that same nervousness that he’d experienced from this human earlier. When a few moments have passed, he formulates a story, something sappy, something good. Something that will gain the trust of this stranger immediately.  


**Nakura:** _My sister got very sick earlier this year. We didn’t know what it was at first. It seemed like a regular cold. She was only nine, and kids get sick, so my parents didn’t take it too seriously. She kept getting sicker and sicker, until one day, she couldn’t even get out of bed. It turns out that she had lung cancer. So much time had passed that it had spread throughout her entire body._

 **Nakura:** _My family gave up everything to keep her alive. My mom quit her job. My dad worked extra hours to help support them, but the strain was too much. I tried picking up shifts at work to help lighten the load, but nothing was ever enough. There’s a doctor in the United States who works on cases like this. The treatment would be expensive, but there was a chance that she would live._

 **Nakura:** _We definitely didn’t have the money. I ended up borrowing all of it from a shady loan shark. I thought it would be worth it, as long as she stayed alive. We paid the money for the treatment, for the flight over, and for her hotel room while she waited. She died two days after she started treatment, and the doctor refused to refund the money. She technically started the program, and it stated clearly in our contract that we couldn’t get the money back once treatment started._

 **Nakura:** _My parents completely shut down. There are loan sharks hounding me relentlessly. I definitely can’t afford to pay them back. It seems like the only way out is to disappear._

 **Nakura:** _So that’s it, basically. I know it might seem cruel to leave my parents like this, but it will be easier for everyone this way._  


The reply doesn’t come for a long time. He thinks that he might have overdone it when half an hour passes, and he’s cutting his losses, scrolling through a different thread where a group of people are planning to die together during the weekend when he hears the familiar beep. It takes him a moment to open the message, reveling in the sweet taste of victory—another human captured by his charms. Another human who will come to regret this very decision maybe for the rest of their lives.

It’s intoxicating.

He clicks the message button, scanning over the text with barely-contained excitement.  


**Zayukain:** _I’m sorry that happened to you._

 **Zayukain:** _My reason isn’t as bad._

 **Zayukain:** _It’s stupid._  


He sends a few reassuring messages— _‘I’m sure it’s a good reason, you seem like a reasonable person. Just tell me, I won’t judge you’_ —and he’s rewarded with a reply. Simple and curt. This human cuts to the chase.  


**Zayukain:** _I’ve been in love with the same person for almost ten years, but they hate me._

 **Zayukain:** _And every time I see them, I can’t help it. I do something stupid. I hurt them, just like I hurt everyone._

 **Zayukain:** _Always hurting people that you care about… wouldn’t it be better to be dead?_

He considers that for a long time. Hurting people, loving people, reaching out and barely scratching the surface of elusive friendships, these bonds between humans that he’s never quite been able to grasp. It tugs at something deep within his chest, stings in all of the worst places, and for a moment, he almost closes the browser and forgets the whole thing, almost calls it a night and actually gets some sleep.

But something stops him.

Maybe it’s the next message, so earnest, so genuine and trusting, pure maybe, needy and lonely. Maybe it’s that very ache within his chest that urges him to oblige someone else, if only for a while. But he pauses, nonetheless, and reads the text. It rattles a completely different emotion inside of him, no less foreign, no less unwelcome. Something warm and maybe even tender. Something far too raw for him to address.  


**Zayukain:** _That’s why… even if you’re lying… I want to disappear with you._

 **Zayukain:** _I’ve been alone my entire life._

 **Zayukain:** _I don’t want to leave that way too._

  
He bids his new friend a good night soon after, shuts off his computer, drags himself to his bedroom. He sleeps long and he sleeps heavily. He dreams of nothing.

And when he awakens, he messages this mysterious human again.

* * *

 

  
**[Private Chat: 07/11/16: 11:32:43]**

 **Nakura:** _This weekend seems like a good time. Did you get the coordinates that I sent you?_

 **Zayukain:** _Yeah._

 **Nakura:** _Are you ready?_

 **Zayukain:** _Yeah. What time?_

 **Nakura:** _Midnight. No sooner, no later. I’ll be waiting for you._

 _  
_ Izaya finds himself messaging Zayukain multiple times a day. It’s been weeks since they met in the chats. They’ve talked about their individual problems, their lives growing up, their families, friends, romantic interests. Izaya finds himself slipping naturally into his lie, just like always, but he can’t help the stirring in the pits of his belly each time that he tells this stranger something about himself.

If he tells a joke and Zayukain laughs, he feels a strange sense of satisfaction. Not akin to fooling someone, to winning them over or gaining their favor, and it bothers him. Sometimes Zayukain tells him secrets. Sometimes they confide in him things that he knows they’ve never told a soul.

_‘This isn’t the first time that I’ve tried this.’_

_‘It’s just the first time that I’ve tried it with someone else.’_

And they’ve told him about this person that they’re in love with, a faceless human who he might never get to meet. Cocky, they tell him, cocky and sly. Conniving, definitely, but clever and beautiful. They talk about this person as though they’re the only other human in the universe, but Izaya picks out the patterns in the stories, the little hints of an unhealthy relationship, a blossoming obsession, a one-sided affection that has slowly but surely rotted this human from the inside out.

_‘Why did you try it the first time?’_

_‘I hurt someone who I cared about.’_

_‘How did you try to do it?’_

_‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’_

He pieces together a human being from snippets and stories. He feels that maybe he understands this Zayukain, maybe he can understand this blunt person, this sensitive and honest, but terribly lonely soul. Someone maybe a little too similar to himself. Someone who strives for the love of humanity and only finds themselves more and more alone.

And despite himself, he finds comfort in this.

He thinks that he might miss this human when they die, or when they don’t. Either way, it will be the end of all of this—whatever it is going on between the two of them.

The days are only drawing nearer. He’d sent Zayukain the coordinates to a location in Ikebukuro—and abandoned office building with faulty locks, so easy to sneak up to the roof, such a simple means of suicide, but this human says that they want to jump—and they’d agreed on a time. A strange dread inflates in his chest. A mourning, maybe, for this blossoming friendship.

He tells himself, in a moment of weakness, that maybe Zayukain wouldn’t feel the need to die if they had someone here for them like this.

And he wonders, infuriatingly vulnerable, insufferably weak in his own head if even for a moment, if his new online friend is second-guessing their decision because of him.

If they don’t show up, how will he feel? Will he be offended, perturbed?

Or will he find that he’s relieved?

He shakes away such needless thoughts, concentrating only on the thrill of the game. He’s been so engrossed in this cat and mouse that he didn’t even bother to tell the human to bring money this time—or so, that’s what he tells himself. He doesn’t want to think about it too much.

The days dwindle, the nights drag on. Zayukain messages him on lunch breaks and before and after work. They won’t tell him what they do for a living, their sex, or even what they look like. They’ve told him that they’ll be distinctive when they meet up. He’s told them that he frequents Ikebukuro and asks them if they’ve ever been.

They tell him, yes, they’ve been there before.

 **Nakura:** _Did you see any of the urban legends?_

 **Zayukain:** _I don’t think so._

 **Nakura:** _Oh, you would know if you did! There’s a rider who’s rumored to have no head!_

 **Zayukain:** _Sounds like a bunch of crap._

 **Nakura:** _That’s not even the scariest thing! There’s a real live *monster* living there too!_

 **Nakura:** _I know, I know, but I’ve seen it with my own two eyes! It parades around in human skin, but it’s definitely no human. I’ve seen it lift a truck above its head, no lie!_

 **Nakura:** _Be careful when you travel through this weekend. I don’t want you to die before we get to meet! Beware of the monster named Heiwajima Shizuo!_  


**[ Zayukain has left the chat ]**

Zayukain logs off at random sometimes, so he isn’t particularly worried about it. They always return eventually, seeming to be in varying states of frustration and never quite willing to talk about it. He’s prodded a few times, pressed the issue enough that he knows that they are aware of how strange it is to ask someone to die with you and not share little secrets like that. Sometimes, they divulge him, but it’s never the full truth, he can tell.

  
**Zayukain:** _I’m not very popular. People are always messing with me._

 **Nakura:** _Are you being bullied?_

 

There was a long pause after this—seconds, then minutes. The ellipses animation hadn’t even started up, and he’d wondered if maybe he’d struck a particularly sensitive nerve.

  
**Nakura:** _Hello?_

 **Zayukain:** _It’s not like that, but I guess you could say that._

  
It doesn’t make any sense, but not many things about this person do. He wonders sometimes if this Zayukain thinks that they’re playing him too. Most of the usernames on the forums are melodramatic— _losingit5334, someonepleasestopthepain, lonelygirl543_ —but Zayukain? Search engines yield no results. It’s definitely not a real name.

This human, he feels, has something to hide.

He’s bound to find out, he knows. When they’re standing on the edge, overlooking the city, alone in the night and a step away from death, what good are secrets?

As a smear on the pavement, this person must know that they’ll have nothing left to hide from.

* * *

 

  
Saturday morning blares into existence in the form of his alarm signifying the start of another long morning. His fingers grope around at the surface of his nightstand, fumbling blindly for his phone and smashing the _‘dismiss’_ button.

He couldn’t sleep last night, up until 3AM, rattled with an emotion that he convinces himself must have been excitement. It’s been a long time since he’s been so intimate with his humans. They must miss him, he thinks, their little talks, his speeches about death and about cowardice, selfishness and the childish idea of dying to run away from the problems that humans tell themselves are so much bigger of deals than they really are.

Zayukain seeks the end of loneliness in death. They’ve reached out to another human being one final time, and for once, they think that they’ve been accepted. He isn’t sure what hinders them from forming bonds with other people, or why they’re ridiculed and apparently universally hated.

He has his theories, but he has a feeling that he’ll still be surprised. A deformity, he thinks. Something so ugly on the outside that no one will risk getting close enough. They’re articulate enough online. Curt, maybe, but never stupid. They always see through him when he’s trying too hard, always call him out when he’s going off on a tangent that they deem immoral. They’re passionate about things, he can tell, even if he doesn’t know what those things are, and even if they’re easily embarrassed when given compliments.

He’s come to discover that some people are only mysterious because they’re shy. This human has flourished under the sunlight of his attention so beautifully. They’ve grown more confident, even happier, and he tells himself that he’s overjoyed to have the opportunity to diminish that sunlight as well.

He’s their God, perhaps. Giving life, taking it away. Giving them a reason to carry on, and hopefully witnesses that final moment when that drive is stricken from their heart, and maybe, just maybe…

They’ll actually jump.

He drags himself out of bed, showers, brushes his teeth, dons his usual clothing and pads into his office area. He browses the Dollars message boards for new information, wastes time arguing with one of his more annoying information sources about something inane, and when he finds himself caught up with everything that he’d planned for his morning, it’s only a little after noon.

His stomach growls impatiently. He ignores it, for now. Without really thinking about it, as though by instinct alone, he logs on to the suicide forum and checks his unread messages.  


**[One Unread Message]**

**Zayukain [12/11/16: 07:05:03]:**

_I haven’t seen that person in weeks. I don’t know if I wanted to or not. I have no idea what I would say to them anyway. Like I could actually tell them that what I’m doing tonight or why._

_I don’t want to do this alone._

_I don’t want anyone to know about it either._

_I don’t think anyone will be sad about it. It’s not that._

_I don’t know what I’d say to them if I saw them, but I thought I would see them._

_Are you really going to be there tonight?_

  
Would it be better if he didn’t show up at all? This human is so full of self-doubt. They won’t tell him how they’ve hurt the person that they love, or why this person hates them. They won’t let him quite that close, of course, always keeping him just enough in the dark that he can’t quite figure them out.

They live alone, they’ve told him. They work full-time. It’s not a career to be proud of, but nothing that they’d be ashamed to admit to their parents.

 _‘Any girlfriends or boyfriends?’_ he’d asked, and immediately, for once since they’d started talking, he’d received a reply.

_‘Of course not.’_

They don’t seem to keep in contact with their family. They don’t seem to have many friends.

Truly, he thinks, no one will miss this person if they disappear.

  
**Nakura [12/11/16: 12:25:56]:**

_This is such an official message, Zayu-kun! Why not use the chat? If you were meant to see that person, you will. If not, you won’t have to worry about it after tonight._

_I promise I’ll be there. You have my word._

  
The hours pass. Izaya busies himself with work. He meets with a few clients, makes some phone calls, finally stops by a sushi joint near his apartment for late lunch. The sun is setting as he finishes up his final job—easy information about a cheating husband, something so mundane that he wonders why some of these people don’t just hire a private detective.

It’s a lot cheaper, and with someone like him, definitely less of a gamble.

He’s making his way back home, wondering what sort of outfit this person would expect for Nakura to wear. They don’t seem to worry about things like that, and it’s not like he’s intending to keep up the façade for that long. He can’t quite pinpoint why he’s suddenly worried about his appearance, why his jacket seems a bit flamboyant, why he feels as though he should wash his face and brush his teeth before going out. It’s not like it’s actually his last night on earth, or like he might be meeting up with someone who will be anything more to him than another human whose life he’s touched, smudging dirty fingers over everything that they’ve thought about themselves until they can’t find hint of it through the stains.

Forcing them to rebuild, to begin again. Shaking things up, rattling their chains. Watching life and death, confusion and hatred, such a myriad of emotions play across their faces as they realize that they’ve been fooled at their most vulnerable of times. Maybe they’ve been exposed to the ugly belly of humanity for the first time. Maybe they’ve never met a God.

He isn’t sure, but the experience is intoxicating. And he’ll drink it in again tonight.

He tells himself, again and again, that excitement is the only thing that he feels.

* * *

  
It’s five minutes until midnight.

Izaya tucks himself away behind a corner on the roof, just close enough to the door that he can keep an eye out for his companion. He’s riddled with nerves, overwhelmed with the old joy of this game after so much time away from it. He can barely remember why he stopped in the first place.

Was he too busy? Had he grown bored of it?

Right now, he finds, there’s nowhere he would rather be.

He checks the time on his phone, watching as five minutes flip to four, three, two—

The handle of the door rattles. He pulls back, hiding away for a moment out of fear of being seen too soon. He doesn’t want to ruin this game right when it’s just starting to get good.

He can hear footsteps tapping against the rooftop, echoing in the open air as Zayukain—whoever they might be—closes the door behind them, seeming to move toward the edge of the roof, just within Izaya’s line of sight if he were to lean just a little bit further forward.

After a torturous, careful sixty entire seconds of waiting for the coast to be clear, he chances a look around the corner.

A lone figure stands near the ledge, looking out over the sleeping city.

Izaya reels back momentarily.

It’s dark, so dark that maybe there’s no use worrying about being seen in the shadows.

So dark that he might not be able to make out the features of a stranger from so far away.

But he would know that uniform anywhere, that hair, those slumping shoulders and long, spindly legs. If he were close enough, he would smell the constant cloud of smoke clinging to his clothing, hear the swift pulsing of the monster’s heart.

And his own heart, it’s drumming so roughly in his chest that he worries it might burst out of him.

The figure looks around, checks his phone, lights a cigarette and leans against ledge.

The figure, so casual, so absolutely unaware of the wolf’s den that he’s currently wandered so innocently into.

Heiwajima Shizuo, waiting here to die.

Izaya almost bellows a laugh, almost steps out from around the corner and makes fun of him. He wants to, definitely. He wants to watch Shizu-chan’s face warp from hateful to absolute betrayal, to humiliation, and maybe even to hurt. He wonders if he’d still jump, if he’d feel so foolish about being tricked once again by Izaya that he would really try to die.

But Shizuo…

Wants to die.

The laughter halts in Izaya’s throat. His limbs feel too heavy to move.

Shizu-chan is in love with someone who hates him, he admitted it himself.

Izaya feels lightheaded. He braces himself against the wall, tearing his gaze away from Shizuo and forcing himself to calm down. His tongue feels too fat in his mouth. His throat is scratchy and dry. His hands tremble against freezing concrete walls, knees knocking together as he braces himself, struggling just to stay standing as so many memories flood back to him.

  
_I don’t want to do this alone._  


He can see Shizuo moving around out of the corning of his eye. He’s texting, and Izaya chokes a sigh of relief as his phone vibrates instead of rings, silently thanking his past self for remembering to switch it over. He’s pacing around, stopping only to blow out thick clouds of smoke into the air—the warmth of his breath mingling with the clouds, floating upward into the glow of the security lights. It hangs there above them, rainclouds maybe, a blanket of whiteness looming overhead.

Izaya focuses on it, concentrating on staying quiet, not really sure why he can’t move or can’t speak, why he’s choosing to stay hidden and how long he’ll wait for Shizuo to leave. He shivers as the cold finally creeps under his jacket. His fingers feel numb. Even his toes freeze inside of his shoes. Shizuo isn’t even wearing a jacket. No scarf, no hat. Just his bartender’s uniform, same as always.

Just the expression of a lost dog, waiting for someone to finally show up.

Around the corner, hidden against the wall, shaking and overwhelmed, lies his worst enemy. His online friend. The person who he was planning to trust with the final moments of a long, pathetic, painful life.

Izaya spots a railing that leads down to the fire escape.

Thirty minutes have passed and Shizuo still waits.

His phone buzzes three more times.

And he sneaks away.

He understands that he still might be the final person to see Heiwajima Shizuo alive, but he doesn’t look back.  


**Zayukain:** _Where are you?_

 **Zayukain:** _I’m here._

 **Zayukain:** _You’re late._

 **Zayukain:** _You’re still coming, right?_

 _  
_ Izaya turns off his phone.

He slinks home like a wounded animal, tail between his legs.

And when the night fades into morning, he doesn’t read the paper, he doesn’t watch the news. He won’t talk to Namie about current events, won’t even open the Dollars message boards.

He doesn’t want to think about it—

What he might find.

* * *

  
In earlier December, as pedestrians pull woolen hats and fluffy scarfs tighter over their faces, shuffling closely together on the sidewalks as the chill of winter seeps slowly through the city, Heiwajima Shizuo walks casually behind his boss, clutching a small money bag to his side, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Tom-san talks about their next debtor, an older guy, walked out on his family for a hostess. He talks about the money that he owes and where they’ll find him. Shizuo takes in every word, lighting a cigarette and taking in the way that the smoke mingles with his breath in the air.

The days have melted together since a single night almost a month ago, when he found himself standing alone on a rooftop until two in the morning, waiting for someone to arrive who apparently never planned to come at all.

He isn’t sure if it was some sort of trick, or if maybe this person thought they were preforming miracles. They might have decided that he wouldn’t jump if he were alone, and he hates to admit that they were right.

But he’d found himself overlooking the concrete down below, even pulled himself up onto the edge, grasping loosely at the rooftop and willing himself to slip, and in that moment, alone, embarrassed, lost and ready to die, he’d found himself wondering—

_‘Why am I doing this?’_

Heiwajima Shizuo is strong, always stronger than the next person, always stronger than anyone expects that he will be. He doesn’t know how to live any other way.

He’d thought of Celty learning of his death, of Akane, of Shinra, Tom-san and Vorona. And maybe, somewhere deep down, he’d even thought about Izaya.

He’d felt the weight of all of those lives on his shoulders, anchoring him to the roof, stilling his hands and pulling his body back to safety. And he’d opened his phone to message Nakura, to tell him to forget it.

 **[ Account Has Been Deleted ]**  


And that, it seemed, was the end of it.

Just as he’s going over the events in his head, biting back the annoyance of wasting his own time, he catches a whiff of something heinous, and the familiar fluttering of a furry coat out of the corner of his eye.

He almost misses it when he turns his head, almost tells himself that he’s going crazy, but he can see the blur of Orihara Izaya flitting through the crowd, and so, without a second thought or a regard for Tom-san calling his name, he gives chase.

There are no street signs, to yelling, no brandishing of knives. Izaya looks back and catches his eye, throws up a lopsided grin, pretends that everything is normal between the both of them. They’re winding through the crowd, past the train station, past Russia Sushi, past so many tiny shops and restaurants before Izaya finds himself trapped in a dead end alleyway, with walls too high to scale and a monster rooted directly in his path.

Shizuo doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He draws forward and Izaya paces back. His back hits the wall behind him, his fingers itch for his knife. Shizuo reaches forward, comes nearer, and a blade is pressed firmly against his throat.

His pulse pounds between them, he knows that Izaya can feel it too.

He thinks about Nakura telling him, _‘If you were meant to see that person, you will.’_

The words bubble in his throat—everything he wished he’d said before that night, everything he should have said in high school, after graduation, any time that he’d wasted fighting, hating, chasing and running away. No noise will leave him, and Izaya’s eyes are burning small holes in his face, not quite meeting his gaze, and he doesn’t understand it at all. The knife feels flimsy against his skin, the hands holding it tremble.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya speaks, barely above a whisper, hardly making any noise at all, “How nice to see you.”

He’d pushing himself forward, blade pressing firmer into Shizuo’s skin. It’ll leave a mark, he knows. It might even bleed, but he holds his ground. He allows Izaya to come closer, to ghost lips against his ear, and he breathes, a gust of nothing but breath and nerves barely audible above the noise of the city outside of their hiding place, “No one is allowed to kill you but me.”

Snow dots the sky above. A cold wind rustles the clothing every person walking past. Shizuo’s cheeks set fire, a weight in his belly so heavy that he couldn’t move if he tried.

Izaya slips past him, flicks his blade closed, waves goodbye.

“Not even you, Shizu-chan.”

Nothing makes sense at all. Not this, not Izaya or his words, not the monotonous days that have stretched between that night and this very moment.

But he watches Izaya go, and he wonders, tracing the line left from the knife against his throat, if maybe someday, he’ll be strong enough to tell Izaya any of the secrets that he’s been keeping for all of these years.

If it’s meant to be, he thinks, it will happen.

If not, he'll find a way to keep moving forward.

 

**[ Zayukain has been deleted ]**

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is something that's been sort of bugging me for a long time. I wanted to write it, but then I thought, 'It's not really in character for Shizuo to be acting like this.' but I guess that's the point of fanfiction, isn't it? To be able to experience these scenarios that aren't possible in canon.
> 
> It was still an interesting story to write! Kind of a depressing take on the old "Characters Become Friends Online Unwittingly" trope that is near and dear to my heart.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys liked it!


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